Peter's at Rome, and the marvel at
Milan. Fanny found her way down the crude cinder paths that
made an alley-like approach to the cathedral. She entered
at the side door that one found by following arrows posted
on the rough wooden fence. Once inside she stood a moment,
awed by the immensity of the half-finished nave. As she
stood there, hands clasped, her face turned raptly up to
where the massive granite columns reared their height to
frame the choir, she was, for the moment, as devout as any
Episcopalian whose money had helped make the great building.
Not only devout, but prayerful, ecstatic. That was partly
due to the effect of the pillars, the lights, the
tapestries, the great, unfinished chunks of stone that
loomed out from the side walls, and the purple shadow cast
by the window above the chapels at the far end; and partly
to the actress in her that responded magically to any mood,
and always to surroundings. Later she walked softly down
the deserted nave, past the choir, to the cluster of
chapels, set like gems at one end, and running from north to
south, in a semi-circle.
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